Page 60 of Sweet Animosity

Metal shavings?

Nothing.

If it was the mystery Russian dude sending me the message, I needed a Plan B.

And if Var was on to me, then it was highly unlikely I would ever find the other five paintings. He clearly would hide them somewhere other than his office, where I was free to snoop.

My only option was to possibly create one more Mona Lisa fake to appease the Russian.

Taking another slug of my wine, I walked into the bedroom. After checking under the bed and in the closet again, just in case, I changed into an old man’s shirt and yoga pants.

Putting my hair up in a scrunchie, I moved into the second bedroom, my art studio.

I placed the poplar plank canvas on the easel.

I only had one left and maybe enough paint to finish another Mona Lisa.

In order to create the impression of a hazy, seamless transition from dark to light with no visible brushstrokes like da Vinci, I’d have to use impossibly thin layers of oil paint and let it fully dry between layers.

The sfumato process could take weeks, even months. Rushing through the delicate process would make it more obvious it was a fraud, not the real deal, but perhaps it would be enough to get me out of trouble.

It would have to. It wasn’t like I had many options at this point.

Since I would have to mix the powder lead white pigment with oil, I raised the bedroom window to be on the safe side. After using my glass muller to mix the pigments, I carefully applied the primer to the plank to fill in the cracks and create a smooth surface.

As I was doing so, the window slipped and slammed closed.

The sudden loud bang had me jumping a foot into the air.

Taking another swig of wine, I tried to focus again.

Again, the window fell, scaring the crap out of me.

Just as I was wedging a paint stick between the window and the sill to keep it open, my phone rang.

It was Michelle. “Come meet us!” she shouted over the loud music.

I sighed. “I’m already in for the night.”

“Don’t be a loser! Come out for a drink. We’re at that new place in Fulton Market. The one with the blue-cheese-stuffed olive dirty martinis.”

I looked at the drying primer. It wasn’t like I could do much else with it.

Although I should start on the small Degas that was just ordered through my secret Etsy account.

Apparently, a woman was about to lose her beloved painting of two ballet dancers to a cheating husband in a divorce. So she reached out to me for a convincing copy to trick her asshole future ex-husband. It was a quick job that would get me twenty-five thousand.

But I did love a good martini.

“You came! Everyone, Vivian is here!”

Michelle launched herself at me. With her arms around my neck, she hugged me close. “Where have you been, bitch? I’ve missed you.”

I leaned my head against her shoulder as I wrapped my arm around her waist. “I know! I’m sorry. I’ve just been really busy at work.”

Stacey groaned. “That woman is the worst! You need to talk to her about work/life balance. Although I will say you look fabulous. Is that Gucci?” she asked as she took my new ivory purse from me for a closer look.

I tightly closed my lips and nodded as guilt tore at my gut like acid. All my friends thought I worked for an awful interior designer, named Regina George, hand drawing and water coloring her sketch ideas for clients.